Chapter 30 030

Chapter 30 030
It started around three in the morning.

I heard her before she called for me—a sharp breath sucked in through the wall, then silence, then another, rougher sound. I got up and reached her door before she even knocked.

She sat on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed against her stomach, her face twisted up in that stubborn way it got when pain tried to win and she refused to let it show.

"It's time," she said.

"How long?"

"Twenty minutes apart. Maybe less now."

I was already moving. Phoned Dr. Voss—she picked up fast, like she’d been waiting for this. Called Cora, too. Got the room set up just how we’d planned—warm, quiet, every detail checked the way the doctor wanted.

Meira walked there on her own. I offered my arm, and she took it—not because she needed the help, but because she wanted to, and that somehow meant more to me than I could ever explain.

Six hours of labor.

I didn’t leave, not once. Stayed right there, didn’t look away, not even when it was hardest. She never asked me to go, and honestly, I wouldn’t have, even if she had.

She was something else.

That’s the only way to put it. Every time the pain hit, she breathed through it, held on. When it peaked, she squeezed my hand until I thought my bones might shift. I let her—I gripped just as hard. She didn’t break her gaze once, eyes wide and fierce, and I met her look straight on.

The first baby came at 9:14 a.m.

A boy. Small but loud—he filled the room with his cries before Dr. Voss had even finished. Meira laughed, tears running down her face, a jagged noise that thudded right in the center of my chest.

Eleven minutes later, the second one arrived.

A girl. Quieter, eyes wide open, already scanning the room like she was sizing it up, deciding what to make of it all.

Dr. Voss placed both babies in Meira’s arms.

I just stood there, staring at the three of them. Something inside me shifted. Nothing in my life—fifteen years of being sure of myself, certain about my purpose, about what really mattered—none of that had prepared me for this. This woman, in this bed, with these two tiny new lives who’d just shown up and changed everything in an instant.

Meira looked at me.

Her face was exhausted and wrecked and honestly more beautiful than I’d ever seen.

"Come here," she said.

I sat on the edge of the bed. She handed me the girl, not asking if I was ready—just settled her gently into my arms. I looked down at that small, serious face, her fist curled up close to her cheek. That last wall I’d managed to keep up for all these years just slipped away, quietly. No big scene. It was just gone.

"She has your jaw," Meira said.

I gave her a look. "She’s two minutes old."

She just nodded. "She has your jaw." Absolutely sure.

I looked down at the girl, thought about my father, that letter he’d written, how all he ever wanted for me was a life of my own.

I looked at Meira, at the boy in her arms, the girl in mine, the soft quiet room closing around us.

I think I found it, I said to him in my head. I finally found it.

"Names," Meira said.

We’d talked about it, kind of. Not with lists, just little conversations, letting the future work its way in.

"Edmund," I said for the boy. I’d kept that one close, didn’t want to push for it unless it felt right.

She looked at me, and her eyes filled.

"Edmund," she said, like she’d been waiting for me to put it out loud.

"And for her," I said, "you choose."

She looked at the girl in my arms—really looked, took her time, soft and thoughtful. That was her way when something mattered.

"Edith," she said after a moment. "After my mother."

I nodded. "Edmund and Edith."

"Edmund and Edith Vael," she said. Quiet, certain.

Not Nicholas. Not Kaelan’s name. Vael.

She’d chosen that, just like that. Gave them my name, my father’s name—the name I’d thought wouldn’t last, that was nearly lost, but now was recorded forever in the council’s books.

I met her eyes, and she met mine, and between us were these two brand new, breathing little people who had arrived already belonging.

"Thank you," I said.

She shook her head. "Don’t thank me."

"Meira—"

"We’re family," she said, plain as that. "You don’t thank family."

I took that in for a long moment. Then I leaned in, pressed my forehead to hers, careful not to jostle the baby. She closed her eyes, and I closed mine, and in that warm quiet room, Edmund made restless sounds in her arms while Edith curled her fist tighter.

Family.

That word hadn’t meant anything to me in fifteen years.

Now it meant everything.